


Indelible

by 1863



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe
Genre: Bruises, Kryptonite, M/M, Sex with Kryptonite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-03-05 09:00:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18825436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1863/pseuds/1863
Summary: The bruises may heal, but some marks never fade.





	Indelible

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt: 100 words of bruises.

Bruce's fingers dig in, mouth sucking hard at his collarbone, teeth scraping over his neck. They don’t do it like this very often and whenever they do, Bruce always goes a little mad with it, a little wild. It’s a stark contrast to the control he usually shows and it makes Clark get a little frantic too.

"God," Clark gasps, when Bruce pushes in again, a rough slow thrust that makes his whole body shake. "Bruce, I —"

He's cut off with a kiss, a hard, brutal thing that will leave his lips swollen and sore for as long as Bruce wears the kryptonite ring. There's only a miniscule amount embedded in the metal, just enough to bring Clark down to baseline human when it’s nearby, but it’s enough to let bruises blossom wherever Bruce wants to leave them.

"I thought you didn't want to talk," Bruce says, when he finally lifts his head. He stares down at Clark with dark, dark eyes, most of his face lost to shadow. Still, Clark can see a faint gleam of amusement there, sharp and just shy of mocking. Bruce rolls his hips again, gasping a little himself. "Christ, Clark," he murmurs, briefly closing his eyes. "You feel like a fucking furnace, you know that?"

Clark clenches around him by way of response and Bruce's head drops, landing heavily on his shoulder.

"Asshole," Bruce adds, breathless, voice muffled against Clark's skin. He pushes himself up with one arm and runs his free hand over Clark's bare chest, lingering over the bruises he'd left there earlier that night. It's rare enough for both of them to have a whole night free, let alone one where they're both willing to use the ring, so when they do Bruce always goes all out — he makes it last for hours, makes the bruises sink in deep; he takes full advantage of Clark’s biology and makes him come so hard and so often that by the end of it, Clark can barely remember his own name.

Bruce presses down now on a set of bruises scattered over Clark’s hip, bruises that are the exact size and shape of his own fingers. He keeps pressing down until Clark is writhing against the sheets, breath hitching as Bruce’s fingers dig in. It hurts, it hurts a _lot_ , but Clark arches up anyway, chasing the pain.

The kryptonite makes it hard to think, hard to figure out whether it's Bruce moving against him or that unfamiliar ache that makes him spread his legs wider, makes him dig his nails deeper into Bruce's back. They’ll leave scars, Clark knows, scars and bruises of his own making, to add to the ones Bruce already had before they’d even gotten started. Clark thinks about that now, about Bruce’s body littered with bruises on bruises and scars on top of scars, and he clutches at Bruce even tighter, some part of him wishing that he could be marked in the same way. That _Bruce_ could mark him the same way.

“You are,” Bruce says roughly. “I am.” And that's when Clark realises he'd been speaking out loud, his thoughts spilling out unfiltered and every one of them listened to, every one of them heard.

“Not — not the same,” Clark pants, a little ashamed. “They won’t last long.”

Bruce looks him dead in the eye and slams in so hard the whole bed moves, ramming into the wall with a thud. 

“Long enough,” Bruce replies, and there's something almost vicious in his voice now, a barely controlled brutality that's echoed in the possessive glint in his eyes. Bruce only ever gets like this when they use the kryptonite, and it makes Clark lose it every time. He makes a desperate noise and reaches down, gripping his cock and squeezing hard, and when Bruce's hand covers his own it feels so good that it’s almost like another kind of pain. 

Bruce bends his head and pants harshly into Clark's ear, hips moving at a merciless pace. His mouth brushes Clark's neck, whispering something Clark can't quite hear, and as they stroke faster, as Clark feels himself surrendering yet again to those hands and lips, that voice and tongue, it suddenly hits Clark that Bruce is the only one who could do this to him — the only person in all the world who could lay him out like this, break him open like this, make him _want_ to feel like this. Only Bruce had the means, the will, the streak of something savage in him that likewise only Clark could make him use. That only Clark could _take_ , without any lasting consequences. 

But then Bruce's voice starts sinking in, his whispers coalescing into words, and when Clark comes yet again — hard and sudden and so, _so_ good — he comes with those words seared into his skin, marking him more deeply than any bruise ever could. 

“How are you here,” Bruce whispers, again and again. “How are you here, you're impossible, Clark, how are you even _here_ —” 

Bruce comes not long after Clark does, gasping against Clark's neck. Clark runs his fingers through Bruce's hair as he listens to Bruce’s breathing even out, as he feels his heartbeat slowing down against his chest. The kryptonite makes his head feel fuzzy but right now, his thoughts are crystal clear. 

“You're right,” Clark says, lips brushing Bruce's temple. “I shouldn't be here. But I am.” His fingers curl into a tiny caress and Bruce suddenly goes still. “I’m here because you brought me back.”

It's a long time before Bruce lifts his head. 

“You're right about something else, too,” Clark adds, when their eyes meet. “The marks… they do last long enough.” He touches a bruise on Bruce's shoulder — one that Clark made, not one Bruce got on patrol. “At least, long enough for me.”

Bruce mirrors the action, fingers grazing one of the hickeys on Clark's chest. 

“They’ll be gone by morning.”

“I'm not talking about those.” Clark pauses, looking at Bruce not looking at him. “But then, you already knew that.”

Bruce doesn't deny it. Instead, he lifts his hand and slowly pulls the ring off, making sure Clark is watching him all the while. Then he tosses it, with perfect aim, at the chair on the far side of the room. 

“And now you do, too,” Bruce says. They stare at each other for a moment before Bruce flips onto his back, so they're lying side by side. 

“You could've just used your words, you know,” Clark points out, partly to cut the tension in the air but mostly because it's true. 

Bruce huffs a quiet laugh. 

“Maybe,” he agrees. “But using my hands was a lot more fun.”


End file.
